Endless Tales
by Sar-kaz-m
Summary: They are observers, and only sometimes participants.  But not strangers, for no world is strange to Them.
1. Chapter 1

1

_So this is what it feels like to die_, thought Boromir son of Denethor.

His eyes opened to see the canopy of branches above him, just as it had been before he died. The light was golden and crisp, his senses seemingly sharpened by death.

He shifted a little, feeling…. not pain, but the memory of pain. Rising carefully, he glanced around. Bodies of orcs surrounded him, and he felt a spurt of fierce pride that he'd killed so many before being taken down by arrows.

Arrows. He gasped, glancing down at himself, and for a moment, his vision wavered, and it was almost as if he could see the black shafts, the blood pouring, but then he blinked, and he was again whole.

Turning, he looked back at the bole where he'd collapsed at last, almost expecting to see his own body lying there.

"Oh, now, they wouldn't just LEAVE you," said a voice suddenly.

Boromir spun back to see a figure standing where no one stood before. Again, his vision wavered, and he would have sworn the figure was tall and dark and terrible, but then he saw it was a woman.

She was, to him, a little short. She had long black hair that seems to dance gently in a non-existent breeze. She wore a black gown, not unlike those worn by elven ladies, unrelenting black that seemed to shift on its own. A single strange symbol hung from a silver chain at her neck, and black lines curved on her skin around her eyes. Still, her expression was cheerful and pleasant, her smile inviting conversation.

"Aragorn, and Legolas, and Gimli. They took you to the boats. Cleaned you up nicely, set you to lie in state in a boat."

Shaking his head a little, Boromir asked, "The hobbits?"

"Aragorn and the others will go to try and save Pippin and Merry. Frodo and Sam are on their own."

Boromir sighed. "At least Frodo has Sam with him."

"Yes."

"Will they be alright?"

She smiled. "I never peek ahead in my older brother's book. It's never worth it."

Boromir frowned, confused. "I'm sorry, this may seem rude, but, who are you?"

She stepped closer, her smiled widening. Boromir was drawn to stare into her eyes, bright and dark, clear and fathomless. "Do you not know, Boromir son of Denethor, of Gondor?"

He felt like he was drowning, lost in her eyes. "Mandos! Namo…" Struggling to keep his composture in the face of what felt like the awesome power and majesty of Her, he carefully dropped to one knee. One of the Valar themselves stood before him.

When he knelt, She grinned, and the oppression of Her presence seemed to dissipate. "Oh, aren't you sweet? You can get up." Boromir was suddenly reminded of his young cousin Lothiriel. He rose and She laughed kindly, as if they'd shared a joke.

"Well, are you ready then?" She asked.

Boromir hesitated. "My city? My brother…"

She gave a rueful shake of Her head. "Your time is over, Boromir of Gondor."

He sighed a little, instinctually understanding She couldn't tell him more, but still disappointed. "I wanted…."

"I know." She extended Her hands to him. "Come on, then."

He took her hands, and was enveloped by Her power.

_Death_

_AN: Yes this is a series of short crossovers w/ Neil Gaiman's Sandman series. I didn't want to give it away too early._


	2. Chapter 2

2.

_All things have a beginning, and not everything was always what it is now._

Their children had laughed and played around them during the golden hours of the afternoon. Only moments ago, his beautiful wife had ruefully pulled herself from his arms and shooed their offspring into the house, the warm house of stone and wood, a rustic palace for the Prince and Princess of Ithilien.

The Prince of that land lingered in his gardens, enjoying the fragrant breezes that sprang up as the sun set. He sighed, happily.

"It is a very nice garden," a young female voice said, as if agreeing to his thoughts.

Startled, Faramir sat up, to spy a young woman, a girl really, sitting on the ledge of a nearby fountain. She wore a sunny yellow dress, and trailed a bunch a wildflowers in the water.

"It's wonderful. Everything you've done, you and the Elf Prince. Ithilien blooms again," she continued.

"I beg your pardon, maiden. How did you come here?" Faramir asked, ever polite. This was the family's private garden.

"I'm everywhere," the girl explained patiently. "But I like it here now ever so much. It's…. delightful." She gave him a quirky smile, as if she'd just told a joke.

He had been a bit unnerved by her sudden appearance, but he quickly sensed that she meant no harm to him and his. "I thank you for your compliments, milady," he said.

She bestowed a shining smile on him for his courtesy, then turned to the trees. A bird fluttered down and landed in her outstretched hand, and began to sing happily to her. She whistled a little in harmony, then with a flick of her wrist, launched the happy bird into flight. "You remind me of my brother. I heard the stories you told all day."

Faramir watched astonished as she bent to caress a flower in the shade. Its bud blossomed beneath her fingertips.

"What are you called, milady?" he whispered, almost afraid to ask.

"I have many names. We all do." Her smile was impish. "What do you think it is?"

"Vana Ever-Young…."

"Oh very good!" She clapped her hands, pleased with his cleverness. "Of course, now that you've guessed, I should go. I like to visit all the pleasant places. I'm sure I'll be back in an age or so." She waved at him, and stepped into the trees, where she seemed to fade into the shadows and was gone.

Faramir stared after her until the last light faded.

_Delirium who was once Delight_


	3. Chapter 3

3.

"_Brother. I stand in my gallery and I call you!"_

The answering voice was dry, drier than a thousand ancient books. "You presume, sibling."

The caller pouted. _"It was my creature, you know."_

"It had a purpose."

"_Humph."_

"Did you actually have something to say, or did you just wish to complain?"

That severed the connection.

Striding out of the gallery, the entity wandered her home, pouting over the loss of a favorite toy. Such a bundle of twisted Desires, the very best type. The creeping, twisted, thoroughly insane… what was the word?... _gangrel_ creature had been one of his very best pieces.

He/She threw himself into a chaise and brought a cigarette to her perfect lips.

_Stupid_, he thought to herself. _Now I'm stuck being the damned ocean god again_. She'll admit, he rather liked the association sometimes, the rhythm of the ocean coupled to the pulse of the heart. Still, it smacked of the poetical, something he'd prefer to leave to her brother.

Now that the last and greatest Ring was gone, She/He would have nothing left to do but inspire the sea-longing in elves and poke mortals into committing indiscretions again.

How very boring……

_Desire_


	4. Chapter 4

4 

The Gardens of Elvenhome bloomed eternally in a glorious perfection unknown to mortal lands. Every glimmering drop of dew formed exactly at the perfect place on the velvety petals of every rose, shining like diamonds to slowly slip to the very edge of the petal, dangling perfectly to catch a sparkle in the morning sun, and then fall smoothly and quietly to the emerald green grass thicker than any carpet below.

Frodo could just about shave his foothair for a mess of dirty buttercups.

Perhaps it was his age. Bilbo had long gone to his rest and reward, eased by the comfort of this land. Frodo himself was starting to feel the years upon his shoulders, though he could not longer reckon his own age accurately. Seasons were unknown here, and birthdays meant little to immortal elves. A long time, surely, since Frodo had sailed from the Grey Havens. Long enough that his wounds bothered him but little, a phantom ache in the shoulder when he fancied a storm brewing – though no storm ever troubled the lands of Tol Eressea.

Feeling as foolish as an old gaffer – _though by now, surely I must be an old gaffer myself _– Frodo wandered the gardens in search of something new. He tried to keep himself interested in life by always looking for some thing or story that was new to him. He held out for Sam. He wanted to be here when Sam finally came, as Frodo knew he would.

After a time, he settled onto the grass by a tree, and let himself take a nice nap. After all, what's the fun of being mortal if you can't indulge in a little nap?

The sun was setting past Valinor when he finally woke. Disoriented a moment, Frodo struggled to his feet. He rubbed his eyes, feeling grumpy despite the rest, for surely he'd missed a meal at some point.

Hardly paying attention, he started walking back. However, before long, he realized he'd not returned the way he'd come, for great hedges sprang up, interspersed with stone walls that seemed to hold in nothing, and serve no purpose. A mist, something he hadn't seen since the mortal lands, crept about his ankles suddenly. Frodo shivered a little, despite his fine woolen coat. This new section of the gardens was all together creepy.

Just then, he spied another figure walking through the misty hedges. "I say!" Frodo called out, hurrying as well as old hobbit bones would allow him to catch up. The figure turned and paused.

When Frodo reached the figure, he found that the other walker was tall, almost taller than any elf Frodo had ever met. The figure wore a brown robe, hood up over his head, hiding the face. But from his vantage point, Frodo could catch a glimpse of pale skin.

The walker carried a large book, a tome really. That caught Frodo's attention.

"Terribly sorry to disturb you. Frodo Baggins, at your service. I seem to have lost my way here in the gardens."

"Do not be concerned, young hobbit, for all ways lead to me in the end," replied the figure gravely.

"Young!" Frodo laughed. "I'm hardly young."

"All are young to me," whispered the figure.

At a loss to respond to that, Frodo sought other topics. "What are you reading? I'm very fond of books."

The figure laid one hand on the book, balancing it in the other. Frodo was startled to realize the book was in fact CHAINED to the other's wrist.

"This book, Master Hobbit, is not for idle reading."

"What is it?" Frodo asked, almost afraid of the answer.

In a voice that seemed to echo through ages even older than Galadriel's, the other responded, "This is the book of all things. In it is written the history of all ages, all worlds, all things known and unknown."

Frodo shivered. "I'm rather sorry I asked."

The figure shook its head, and for a moment, Frodo caught a glimpse of the other's face, and he could have sworn that the eyes in that face where as white and milky as a blind man's. But how could a blind man read a book?

"Well, sounds fascinating." Frodo floundered a moment, uncertain how to proceed.

"If you would know, follow that path, always choosing the right at any end, and you will find yourself on familiar grounds." With this offered advice, the other turned and began walking into the mists again, opening the great tome and resuming his reading.

Frodo nodded. "Thank you very much, friend." He hurried towards the directed path, eager to get back to his elf-built home and his hot tea.

Behind him, the figure's finger traced a line in the book. _Frodo hurried towards the directed path, eager to get back to his elf-built home and his hot tea._

_Destiny_


	5. Chapter 5

5.

He laughed, enjoying the moment. Standing shoulder to shoulder with Rohirrim that later could never remember his name, or even his face, he watched as the Black Tower fell, and he laughed and cheered the knowledge that the Ring was Destroyed.

A few Gondorians nearby praised the Valar Tulkas Astaldo, and he grinned at the jolt of acknowledgement.

Sometimes, it was good to be the sign of Beginnings, rather than the sign of Ends.

_Destruction_


	6. Chapter 6

_Two today, since they are so short._

6.

She walks, a silent shadow. And she is shadow to the one she owns in this place. A quiet grey shadow, a flicker of the eyes, a breath quickened in desperation.

The woman, barely more than a girl at heart, pauses before a slab of silvered glass in her chambers. In it, she sees a pale figure clad in green, golden hair a dull veil. And the eyes, wide and staring, as one who has seen all the horrors of the world, and cannot fathom them.

The shadow haunts the woman. Ill-meant whispered words give her strength. The dark and twisted man is only partly her creature, but more importantly, his venom strengthens the shadow's hold over the blond woman.

Even the flicker of Hope cannot set aside the shadow's hold on her. Not until all darkness is swept aside, and one of the favored line of an elder brother comes to turn the grey in the woman's eyes back to blue, and sets the joy of the light dancing about her.

Mankind never understands the true nature and methods of Nienna. For what is the partner of grief?

_Despair_


	7. Chapter 7

7. 

"Aspects."

"Beg your pardon?"

"I was ruminating on the complexities of multiple aspects."

The raven scoffed. "Well, YOU certainly have plenty of those. Three alone, here."

The tall thin figure, dressed in black formal robes perfectly appropriate to the Court of Gondor, nodded as the raven alit on his shoulder. "Three," continued the raven. "Two of 'em female too, I like that."

The figure sighed, used to the impudence of his avian companion.

"Sorry, Lord Shaper," said the raven, well aware that he owed his continued existence to the being on whom he rode.

The entity, black-clad and black haired, only smirked slightly. He glanced at his companion, his eyes solid black lid to lid, with no pupil, but only the distant flickers of stars within them. "It's alright, Matthew."

After a moment of just barely respectful silence, the raven spoke again. "So… which do you prefer?"

"Which aspect?"

"Here, I mean."

The tall entity thought for a moment. "Irmo. Not that gender has any meaning, but Irmo is in fact closest to my true purpose."

With the raven on his shoulder, the Valar walked higher and higher through the city streets. No one acknowledged his existence, not even the guards. Not even the guards of the Citadel, where the two companions walked right up to the sacred tree.

Irmo reached out his hand, and three petals fell into his palm. "Irmo. Varda. Vaire."

The raven bobbed. "God of Dreams. Goddess of Stars. Goddess of History. It doesn't bother you? That they felt the need to dice you all up and then make you female?

"Why should it?" Irmo replied. "Each world defines us according to its needs. My brother is as much Melkor as he is Tulkas. And yet they have him fighting himself."

"Silly," grumbled Matthew.

"Not at all. That is their history, their stories. They have their own truth. Ask my eldest brother, if you want a better explanation."

"brrr, No thanks. He can keep his misty hedgemaze."

Irmo smiled slightly. "But come, I have a better purpose here than ruminating on philosophy."

He walked away from the White Tree. That night, when all four guards were off duty and asleep, each would dream of their gods, and of philosophy.

Irmo walked calmly into the great hall, where a great many people were gathered. At the far end, on a dais, a King with his Queen stood over another couple. That younger couple gave each other vows and promises, before witnesses, and soon the whole hall erupted in cheers as the young dark-haired prince swept his fair bride into a kiss.

"A wedding! I love weddings," Matthew said cheerfully.

"Yes, today Prince Faramir weds Lady Eowyn."

Matthew eyed his master. "And why are you here?"

Irmo raised a brow. "I always try to attend family events."

Matthew fluttered his wings in surprise. "Family! Who's family?"

Irmo did not reply, but made his way through the crowd effortlessly. Again, none seemed to see him, yet all made way before him. Finally, he came to where the happy couple stood receiving the congratulations of all their kin.

Raising a hand over the Prince and Princess of Ithilien, Irmo whispered his blessing. "Only fair dreams from now on." Then he turned on his heel and made his way out of the marble citadel.

Once they were outside, Matthew began his questions again. "OK, now I know there has to be a story here."

"It was many ages ago, and not at all what you're thinking. More of an… adoption. They call it a Gift of Numenor. He is descended from one to whom I granted only True Dreams. One of this House may always enter the Dreaming through the Gates of Horn."

"Ah!" Matthew cried, recognizing something. "That wave dream!"

"Yes. And the dream of the Light in the West."

"I get it now. That's pretty cool. And real nice of you to stop by and bless them like that."

Irmo shook his head. His friend always managed to over-simplify matters. Returning to the courtyard, he paused a moment, as if savoring the surroundings and the view.

"Boss?"

"Yes Matthew?"

"I take it you're not planning on a repeat visit."

Irmo smiled his slight smile again. "No, Matthew, I am not. This tale is done, and all my parts in it. But it will be remembered. To these people, their history is their tales. It will be retold and retold for generations."

"Yeah, until this world ends."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps someone else, on another world, in another age, will dream of this place, and these events." Irmo's voice took on his own aspect, dreamy and distant. "He will dream the tales, and then share them with others, who in their turn will dream, and create tales, and share them with others…."

"And on and on and on! Yeah, boss, I get it." Matthew fluffed his feathers. "And around and around we go."

"It does give structure to eternity, Matthew."

"If you say so," grumbled the raven.

Quietly amused, the entity, both god and concept, held out his hand to his companion, who obediently hopped into it. "Come, let us return home."

Both disappeared in a sudden breeze that rustled the branches of the White Tree, sending a flurry of white petals dancing, and shifted shadows around it.

_Dream of the Endless_

_AN – k, that's it. There are only 7 Endless of course. At last, a finished story! Whew. I forget what triggered me to equate the Endless with the Valar. I suppose because the Endless are themselves 7 of the Great Themes of storytelling (and one can break down Love into Dream & Desire, if one wants to), and LoTR certainly has all of them. For those that don't know The Sandman comics, The Realm of Dream has 2 gates: the Gate of Horn and the Gate of Ivory. Only true dreams come through the Gates of Horn. All other nonsense comes from the Gates of Ivory. Let me know if you have any more questions._


End file.
